


One First Death

by Somniphobic



Category: Inheritance Cycle - Christopher Paolini
Genre: Incest, M/M, Rape, Tentacles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-09
Updated: 2011-02-09
Packaged: 2017-10-15 13:26:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/161234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Somniphobic/pseuds/Somniphobic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Worlds crumbled and men died; Murtagh was always a survivor. But in the end, it only took two words to break him. Takes place during Murtagh's capture by the Twins, shortly after the first book.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One First Death

**Author's Note:**

> Removed from fanfiction.net (for obvious reasons) and posted here.

Murtagh woke in a dark, cold room.

His eyes flickered open, and he stiffened, forcing himself to stay still. Where was he? Who was he with? Why was he… wherever he was. He struggled to focus his senses. His eyes flickered from side to side, up, down – he could see nothing other than complete darkness. The only sound was the sound of his own breathing. The room smelled like… dust, stone, and chilled water. Was he underground?

Underground, yes. That made sense, he'd been with… dwarves or something recently.

He lay there, motionless, for several more moments. Then, cautiously, he shifted; he felt a thin blanket shift underneath him as he did, and heard the creak of old springs. A bed. He flexed his arms, and, surprisingly, found them bound above his head.

It was then that he felt a twinge of panic.

His head ached, his body ached, but most keenly his senses ached. They felt dulled, fuzzy. Had he been drugged? What had happened? The sound of his racing heartbeat filled the room. Vulnerability was the subject often found in his nightmares, and he preferred it there instead of in reality. He struggled to control his breathing. Calm down, Murtagh, he told himself. What's the last thing you remember?

The Ra'zac. A Rider. An elf woman. The desert. The Varden. The dwarves. A battle. Durza, slain. Eragon, lying in bed, wounded across his back. 'I guess you're just like me, now.' Then… Urgals! Murtagh flinched, recalling his intense pain as a club he hadn't been able to block smashed into his skull.

But… he was alive?

A wave of relief washed over him. Yes, he was alive. There was still a chance for survival. After all, all he had to do was make sure his captors (probably dim-witted Urgals) kept him alive until Eragon came and rescued –

Eragon.

Murtagh's breath caught. The Urgals had obviously had some sort of victory; they'd gotten away with him in tow. If they'd managed to get away alive, did that mean that Eragon hadn't been able to pursue them? Did that mean Eragon was… No, he can't be dead. But there was no other explanation. If Eragon had still been alive to give chase, how could Urgals have possibly outrun him? Unless Eragon had chosen not to come after him – but no, that couldn't be it. Could it?

Murtagh's fear turned into anger the moment the door creaked open, flooding the room with light.

"Is he awake?"

The voice reminded Murtagh of a sickening combination of oil and honey. The simmering anger turned to outright hate. The Twins. "Traitors," he spat, glaring at the two silhouettes in the doorway.

"He is," chuckled the other twin.

"You'll be the traitor soon enough," the first said. The two moved closer fluidly, together.

"Fuck you," Murtagh snapped. "I'm not telling you anything."

The Twins exchanged glances. "You don't have to," the first said.

The second nodded. "We were higher up in the Varden than you were, you simple fool. We already know anything you might."

"We think," the first continued. "So we're going to do a bit of a check-up."

"And then we get to play a game. A word game."

Murtagh glared up at them. "The hell are you talking about?"

The second twin snickered. "We mean that it would be convenient if, by the time we got to Uru'baen, you had already been steered back onto the right path. Then our esteemed master would not have to dirty his hands steering you himself."

"You mean you think it would be nice if your master rewarded you for making me his slave."

"Clever, aren't you?"

Murtagh laughed.

The Twins frowned. Their expressions of confusion and irritation were identical as they stared down at him. "Amused?" one said, eyes narrowing dangerously. The other fondled a whip attached to his hip.

"Idiots," Murtagh snickered. "It'll takes weeks to get to Uru-baen."

"So we'll have plenty of time to play our game, yes?" one Twin said, smiling.

"So before we even get halfway there, Eragon will come after me and kick your asses," Murtagh said, smirking and sounding a lot more confident than he felt. "Or do you honestly think you can handle a full-grown dragon and her Rider?"

The Twins burst into laughter.

A chill crept down Murtagh's spine. He's dead, Murtagh thought, horrified. "What?" he demanded, struggling not to let his fear show.

The Twins smiled identical nasty smiles. "We won't have a problem with the Rider coming after us."

Murtagh froze, then thrashed on the bed, fighting to free himself and strangle his captors. "You bastards!" he snarled, twisting his arms in a futile attempt to try and free them. Anger overtook despair; had they murdered his only hope for revenge against Galbatorix? "What did you do to him? If you killed him, I swear, I'll rip you limb from limb and – "

One Twin moved to his side and gripped his hair, then yanked his head forward. He tightened his hold, and immediately Murtagh felt a stab of power against his mind. He gasped and instinctively put up his mental shields, barely managing to get them up before the probe rooted itself all the way in. He laid completely still, body tensed and shaking, as he fought off the attack.

Finally, the Twin let go, growling a curse. Then his thin lips slowly curled upwards again. "You're not as quick to react when you're angry," he mused. "Perhaps it's this Rider that does it to you."

Murtagh glared up at them, caught between focusing on his mental defenses in case of another attack or distracting himself by demanding to know what they'd done to Eragon.

"You really want to know what happened to dearest Eragon?" the Twins asked. They moved closer. Fear – real and more intense, some for himself and some for his missing companion – coiled in his gut.

"I'm sure you do," the first Twin murmured. He cupped Murtagh's cheek, and Murtagh jerked his head away.

"Don't – ," he hissed, but they ignored him.

"Just ask again and we shall tell," one said.

Murtagh shook his head and forced all thoughts of the Rider away. They were too distracting, and he had to focus on keeping his mental shields up. So long as he kept them up, the Twins had no chance of breaking into his mind; he'd fought them off before. He kept his lips tightly closed and concentrated on a serene image – a red sunset. Beautiful. Calm. No Eragon whatsoever.

"Or perhaps… do you want to know what you would have done to him? If you were in control?"

Shit.

There was a delicate pause. The door slid shut – Murtagh didn't know if one of the Twins had moved to close it, or if they'd used magic, but the room was now engulfed in complete darkness. "W-what do you mean?" Murtagh said. Silently he cursed when he heard himself stutter.

"Oh, come now," one Twin said. "Or don't you think about him like that? He's quite handsome. Did you never notice?"

Shit shit SHIT.

"No," Murtagh snapped. "He's my companion, you bastard, not my fuck-buddy."

There was a soft chuckle. "I'm sure."

Murtagh's mind began to spin. This was freakishly confusing and so… wrong. What was he doing here? He was tied to a bed, half-naked, with the Twins crouched over him. He couldn't even tell which Twin was talking now. They were just one, unified voice, one persona carefully taunting him. He shuddered as he felt their hands on him. Make that one voice with four hands.

"He was a lot like you are now," said one of the honey-and-oil voices. "Bound and helpless. You wouldn't believe how… interesting it was. Would you have liked to see him like that?"

Murtagh shuddered. Was this their game? To his horror, he felt his body reacting. His pants were beginning to tighten just at the thought of Eragon in his position, helpless to any kind of… No, no, no! You sick, disgusting – how can you possibly get off at the thinking those things? he hissed at himself silently. He's your friend, and you'd hurt him like that? You're one twisted fucker.

Murtagh felt a stab of guilt, just as he felt a stab against his crumbling mental defenses. He choked on air and jerked, gritting his teeth as a wave of pain crashed into him. He fought to push the Twins out of his mind, but couldn't do it. They had already rooted themselves firmly in his mind. "Bastards," he groaned, shutting his eyes tightly. He scanned all of his most precious memories and tried to quickly create a shield around them.

"None of that, now," whispered a harsh voice in his ear.

A hand twisted in his hair. Murtagh gasped in pain, and was left completely open as they tore into his mind. To his surprise, they began to sift through only a few memories – his most recent. "No," he groaned.

He felt their disinterest as they went through all the information he'd learned of the Varden. "He's useless," murmured one Twin. Murtagh felt a twinge of satisfaction. Their master would not be happy that they'd spent valuable time interrogating a useless prisoner.

"Then we can continue on," said the other Twin.

Murtagh only had enough time to stiffen in shock before he was stretched across the bed.

Cold, hard… somethings… curled tightly around his ankles and stretched them to each post at the end of the bed. The tendrils wrapped around his wrists as well, securing against the possibility of him breaking the ropes. "What?" he gasped. He twisted on the bedspread, fighting to free himself. The things around him didn't budge an inch.

"There, there now, Murtagh," came one of the oily voices. "No need to panic. It's all in your head."

"What are you fucking talking about?" Murtagh snapped, still fighting against the things.

"I think you can figure it out."

The things – tentacles? – yanked him more firmly against the bed. Try as he might, he couldn't move. All in his head? That didn't make sense! He could feel the tentacles wrapped around him, just as he could feel the way they had him pinned.

He shuddered as one began to creep up his legs. It traveled up, up, across the cloth on the insides of his thighs, to… Murtagh gasped in shock as it brushed against his crotch.

"T-the fuck are y-you doing!" he cried, trying to yank away. His bonds tightened their hold. He was left helpless as the curious tentacles paused, then shifted against his crotch again.

"Curious little thing, isn't it?" chuckled a voice through the darkness.

Murtagh bit his lip and didn't reply. The tentacle, apparently bored with it's inspection, moved upwards. It continued to trail across his crotch as it went upwards, and Murtagh bit down so hard he almost tasted blood. This was so wrong! The Twins were watching him be molested by these things, whatever they were.

"You want it to stop?"

"Yes," Murtagh hissed. "Make them let go!"

"Beg."

"What?"

"Beg." Murtagh could almost hear the smirk the Twins had to be wearing. "They're going to play with you for a bit, I think, and then let you go. Since it's going to happen either way, go ahead and beg, and we'll make sure our pets do their job quickly."

"You two are fucking twisted."

"Have it your way, then. Just remember that if you ever want it to end, you're going to have to beg."

More tentacles, smaller this time, slid down his arms. Murtagh shivered as they brushed across his shoulders and neck, and as they crept up to inspect his face. One brushed across his lips, playing with them briefly. Murtagh took a deep breath, lurched forward, and bit it.

The tentacles reacted immediately. Their grip tightened to the point where he began to loose feeling in his fingers. Those explored wrapped around his body, making Murtagh gasp in pain as his lungs were constricted by the tentacles now around his chest. The one in his mouth twisted, and Murtagh tasted a strange, bitter, almost coppery something as it dribbled blood/sap into his mouth. He opened his mouth quickly, hoping the tentacle would leave and the rest would loosen their hold.

It did no such thing. A thick tentacle twisted its way down his arms and, in a trice, wrapped itself around his head. It settled firmly in his mouth. Murtagh choked in shock. His tried to protest, but he could barely talk around the thick tentacle in his mouth, and it just came out a muffled mess.

The tentacles eased around him, letting him breath more easily. Murtagh almost sighed in relief.

"Go on," breathed one of the voices. "Have your fun. He doesn't have any control here."

Murtagh felt fury rise in him, just as a few tiny tentacles slid across his chest. He laid still, completely helpless to whatever they wanted with him. He jerked as they ran across his bare, hard nipples. The tentacles around his hands and wrists tightened, almost as if they were warning him; Murtagh fought down the urge to struggle, knowing it futile and might cause the tentacles to tightening their hold to the point of cutting off all circulation.

The tendrils paused in their exploration, apparently fascinated by his reaction. They brushed against the hardened nubs again. Murtagh shuddered as sparks of pleasure went down his spine. He bit down on the tentacles in his mouth, and found that, surprisingly, it didn't seem to mind. He fought not to make a noise. The tiny tentacles, however, didn't loose their interest. The coiled around his nipples and rocked against them. Murtagh whined, arching upwards. The tentacles yanked him back down, flat against the bed. They teased him mercilessly, leaving Murtagh panting around his gag.

"Having fun?" whispered one of the oily voices. "Tell me, can you imagine Eragon like this? Tied up and completely defenseless as he's teased? Do you imagine him like that late at night when you're alone? Or maybe you don't think about him tied to a bed…"

Murtagh began to shake, unable to deny his arousal as the tentacles continued to play with him.

The mental image of Eragon in exactly his situation wasn't exactly helping, either. The Rider was… attractive, to say the least. Murtagh could imagine him, in vivid detail, chained to a bed. His arms stretched over his head, lean muscles tensed, his hard chest arched upwards, soft eyes pleading, gagged and incapable of anything but moaning, his pants slipping off him as he writhed and…

"Perhaps," one of the Twins continued, "you think of him with his hands chained behind his back, with him on his knees. Naked, helpless, all alone in your quarters. Unable to even gasp or cry out with you in his mouth."

Murtagh groaned around the thick tentacle in his mouth. Fuck, he could feel it, could imagine just how Eragon's lips would feel wrapped around him. No, no, whimpered a little voice in the back of his head. Eragon was a guy; he was his friend. He shouldn't be thinking like that about him. It was just so wrong.

But, oh, he was thinking about Eragon like that; he was thinking quite a bit. He was almost painfully hard, pre-cum staining the front of his pants, and the tentacles had barely touched him down there.

And that little voice, the one that had been telling him it was wrong, was quickly becoming even littler.

"Give in," one of the Twins said, lazily. "Go on. Thinking doesn't do a thing, little princeling. Imagine all you want."

Murtagh shuddered spasmodically as one of the tentacles rubbed affectionately against his erection, and the heat coiled within him intensified. He fought not to buck up against it, but that didn't stop it from pressing a little harder. With a broken whimper, he lost control and his hips arched upwards. The pressure against his crotch vanished; Murtagh didn't know whether to sigh in relief or scream in frustration. He settled for gasping as another tentacle – or was it the same? – slid across his chest. Gently, like the touch of a lover.

"Come, now. Don't you wish it was Eragon that was doing that?"

Treacherous words. Murtagh clenched his eyes shut. He wished to cover his ears, to stop himself from hearing them, to stop everything. Wishing did nothing; the soft touches, ignoring his throbbing erection, continued.

Damn the Twins, they sounded so amused! So fucking in control – what did they want from him, what did they gain from doing this other than the sight of him desperate and helpless?

"They're just thoughts. Just little, fleeting notions; they don't mean anything. They don't do anything. Go on, little princeling. Let yourself imagine, like you want to."

The tentacles brushed down his hips and toyed with his belt. He barely heard the "clink" as it was undone, but he could feel the cloth being pushed down his hips. His erection was carefully, frustratingly, untouched as the tentacles did their work undressing him the rest of the way. Hard and muscle-like, they wriggled up his pant legs, then, for a moment, paused, then flexed. There was the sound of ripping fabic, and Murtagh was exposed completely to the cold air that did nothing to cool his arousal.

His hopeless groan was muffled as they caressed the insides of this thighs, his hips, and stomach. They explored him thoroughly – everywhere but his cock. "Ready to beg for it?" the Twins asked.

Trembling, with the last ounce of will he had, Murtagh shook his head.

"We thought not." The Twins sounded almost gleeful, and Murtagh tensed, preparing himself for whatever they were going to do to him now.

It didn't help one bit when several of the smaller tentacles suddenly surged, wrapping tightly around the base of his cock. Murtagh's surprised yell was muffled, as where his frantic moans as they moved upwards, curling around him and massaging roughly. He writhed, all thoughts vanishing beneath the haze of arousal. They rubbed against the slit and head, stroking the underside of his cock roughly. Murtagh thrashed against the threadbare sheets, trying to buck upwards into their grip, but the tentacles binding him tightened their grip, as did the one gagging him. They held him down firmly as their brethren pleasured him ruthlessly.

The heat built to a crescendo within him, throbbing insistently against his lower abdomen. The pressure became almost unbearable, almost incredible. It climbed higher and higher, peaking at a cliff, until – until –

And there he teetered, on the edge of orgasm, unable to make the final plunge. Murtagh wailed around the gag, thrashing in his bonds. Pre-cum dribbled down his cock, down the tentacles that weren't stopping even as he wasn't coming. As their grip around the base of his cock tightened, he understood. Damn them! Was this their game? Keeping him from orgasm until he was willing to do anything?

"Beg for it," ordered the Twins.

The gag slipped from his mouth. Murtagh was almost incoherent, almost ready to do anything just to be able to cum – almost. He bit his lip harshly, tasting blood.

"F-fuck you," he gasped, when he was able to speak again.

He couldn't see them, but he knew they were smirking. The tentacles didn't stop, but instead increased their pace; Murtagh couldn't stop the curses and moans from spilling from his lips, but he managed to bite down that one word – "please" – that would mean his surrender.

"Wouldn't it feel good," one of the Twins said, "if Eragon was doing this?"

And, oh, gods, they were back to that again. Murtagh groaned in frustration, then in desperation as his tormentors took to teasing his nipples again.

How long could this go on? He began to wonder through the fog of arousal. How long could he hold out, and how long could deny him orgasm without causing any permanent damage? Would they even stop before that, or just keep going until he gave out? Why were they even doing this?

"Wouldn't it feel good if it were Eragon's hand, or his mouth… or his ass?"

Yeah, Murtagh thought before he could stop himself. Yeah, it would.

He shuddered and went limp, refusing to struggle any further. His muscles ached from overexertion, and he couldn't stop himself from writhing against the tentacle's continued ministrations.

Again, he didn't know whether to scream or sigh gratefully as they stopped, their grip loosening.

He lay, trembling, stretched out on the mattress. They continued to stroke his weary body, playing with his hardened nipples and pressing against his sweat-slicked skin, brushing against his painfully hard cock. He barely noticed when one slipped beneath him, thick and tensed.

"Last chance," came a quiet voice.

Murtagh swallowed hard and forced himself to stay silent, afraid that if he replied, he might find himself pleading.

Without warning, he felt something shove itself up into him. Murtagh gasped, jerking. He tensed, hissing in pain as the tentacle pushed itself farther in. It wasn't that big, probably only the size of his thumb, but it felt like a tree trunk. It was slick – was it the one that had been in his mouth, or the one he'd bitten? But it hurt. It wasn't exactly like he was used to having anything there. He could feel himself stretching; with a shuddering gasp, he forced himself to relax. The pain eased.

As soon as it did, a second tentacle pushed in. Murtagh choked back a yell of pain.

Still, his mouth opened wide, and a tentacle plunged in. Murtagh jerked in surprise, and fought to push it out, but it was no use; it was solid, large, and strong, effectively silencing him again, this time completely. Fear trickled through him. The Twins weren't waiting for him to beg anymore.

Tentacles, wiry and strong, wrapped around him further. A few curled around his neck, not hard enough to choke him, but keeping him still. They loosened their grip on his wrists, but traveled further down his arms; the ones on his legs did the same. Those still around his chest pressed against him more firmly, sliding into more effective places.

The two tentacles began to move roughly, in and out, fucking him hard and raw. Murtagh thrashed; or, at least, he tried to. He tried to arch upwards, away from pain, and tried to pull his wrists away from the headboard so he could tear the tentacles away, but he could barely even move.

A third pushed itself in, thick and strong. Then, suddenly, they brushed against something. Without warning, the pain turned to horrible pleasure, and Murtagh found himself trying to push back into the tentacles fucking him instead of away. They pressed against the something – the spot – again, pushed against it, writhed against it, massaged it, and Murtagh was lost. His broken whimper and his hoarse yells were almost inaudible, muffled and lost by the enormous tentacle in his mouth.

"How's it feel to be completely helpless?" asked one of the voices. The horrible voices, he couldn't give into them! But he already was, was already defenseless and defeated.

The tentacles around his cock resumed their caresses. Their grip around the base of his erection didn't falter; not even once, and Murtagh was again forced to the edge and held there. They wriggled against the head of his cock, spending jolts of pleasure down his spine.

No, no, no, no, no, chanted the last sane part of him. No, no…

He tried to imagine this wasn't happening like it was, that he wasn't naked, aroused, and bound to a bed in front of his enemies, forced to play their twisted game. He tried to pretend that the terrible pleasure knawing through him wasn't from some sort of tentacle creature, but from… from…

From a friend, a lover, someone trusted. He clenched his eyes shut. Arya – no. Nasuada… no, Eragon. Yes, gods above, Eragon, he could trust Eragon. Eragon, who he'd sparred with, and fought with, and rescued, and protected, and confessed his past to… yes, yes, he could trust Eragon.

He could imagine Eragon; Eragon with his mouth around his cock, finger fucking him; Eragon fucking him and jerking him off; Eragon pressing his cock into his mouth and silencing him. He could deal with that fantasy so much more easily than the reality of what was happening, and just thinking about it couldn't hurt. Right? It was just a fantasy – just a fantasy – thinking never hurt anyone –

That was when he started to beg.

Incoherently, because of the tentacle in his mouth. Desperately, because he had no idea how much longer he could take this torture. Despairingly, because he realized he couldn't do anything else. Horribly, because he was caught somewhere between fantasy and reality and fully aware of it.

His muffled pleas rose, more and more desperate. Finally – finally – the frustrating pressure around the base of his cock vanished, and he was coming harder than he had in a long time. He slumped, shaking and spent against the sheets, barely aware of the tentacles loosening from around his wrists and ankles, slipping out of him, and releasing his softening cock.

Then they were gone.

Murtagh groaned and opened his eyes. The light hit them, and he shuddered. The darkness was gone. His muscles ached, but the sharp pain in his ass had disappeared. His eyes flickered down; his pants on and untorn, although there was the stain of cum on them. His only restraints were ropes around his wrists.

"What…?" he slurred.

He heard a nasty chuckle and turned his head. The Twins were smirking at him. "All in your head," one of them drawled. "There's quite a difference between reality and fantasy, sometimes. Sometimes not. A little control goes a long way."

"You're twisted freaks."

"I wouldn't be talking." Their grins widened.

Naseua gathered in his stomach. What had they done to him while they were deep in his mind, controlling his senses and his reality? What information had they torn from his mind? Perhaps someone had placed wards around some of his memories, forcing him to forget them should he fall into enemy hands, and the Twins had broken the spell and gained valuable information. Or had he given them his true name? While in the throes of pain and pleasure, had he promised them anything for relief? Was he their slave?

"Perhaps you'd like a little control," one of them suggested unexpectedly.

He blinked at them.

"You seemed to enjoy the idea of him in your position." Their identical grins grew broader and crueler. "At your mercy and begging, I mean."

Murtagh flinched.

He had, damn him. He'd hated what was being done to him, loathed every unwanted touch and every forced groan. Yet, even as he'd hated it, he'd imagined Eragon in the same position and been aroused by it – aroused by the idea of his companion suffering! No, Murtagh tried to tell himself. It wouldn't be like that. I would have his consent. He would want me to do it to him. He would like it.

Yeah, because he's been so fucking interested in the past, jeered a voice. It's not like he's in love with Arya, or straight, or a hero that would never want a traitorous outcast like you. I'm sure he would want it.

Murtagh swallowed hard.

Face it, said another part of him flatly. That's just a fantasy.

"The thing about control, you see," the Twins continued, as if they'd never stopped, "is that you can distort that line, as we just demonstrated."

Murtagh's eyes narrowed.

"Reality is all about perception," one of them said. "Always changing, depending on who controls it." Their eyes glittered. "Lines between what's real and not become distorted, twisted. Did you enjoy having no control over yourself?"

Murtagh glared at them. "Shut up! I don't want to listen to your l – "

"We'll take that as a 'no'." They smirked at each other. "Now, this is a simple question, princeling… would you like a little control?"

Murtagh hesitated.

Fool, whispered the remnants of that tiny voice. Don't you get it? You're playing their game and you're losing quickly, Murtagh. They're trying to control you, to break you. That's why they did what they just did. They'll tear you apart. Don't…

Then the Twins spoke again, and the voice faded to nothing.

"We could give you a little of ours," one murmured. "Just a touch." The shadows behind them rippled and twisted. Murtagh's eyes widened. Was this another of their tricks? Were they still in his head, or were they using magic? What kind of game were they playing? The darkness rushed upwards, reforming into something almost solid; a head, a torso, arms, legs… blue eyes and calloused hands.

Murtagh's hands clenched over his head as the not-Eragon walked over to him, swaying his hips and smirking.

"Just a little power, a bit of distortion, and you control anyone." Murtagh wasn't sure if the not-Eragon was speaking, or the Twins; all the same, the words burned.

Control – yes, control. He wanted it, craved it, starved for it! Anything for this, anything to have this never happen again, anything for it to happen over and over with Eragon. It wasn't disgusting, it was just imaginings; it wasn't like it hurt anyone. He could make it not hurt. He could banished everything, until only the truth remained, until he and he alone controlled the truth.

This want for Eragon wasn't wrong; it couldn't be. Besides, Eragon deserved it. Eragon had abandoned him here to be tortured by the Twins. Eragon hadn't rescued him. But he would still accept Eragon, yes, because that was the right thing to do; to have Eragon. To, to save him, from what this was like, and watch him gasp and writhe, so pretty against the bedsheets, needing only him. Because it was right.

How could it be wrong?

"All you need," said one of them, "is the right words. The right way to break someone. Convince them they want what you can give them, then shatter the want. It's all a word game, you see. All about control."

Words? Words? What did that mean? Murtagh was shaking, mind spinning from the insanity of it all, as the not-Eragon knelt by his ear.

Words, as in the Ancient Language? As in blackmail? As in threats, or promises, or lies? Secrets, maybe?

Soft lips brushed his ear. The not-Eragon whispered only two words:

"Hello, brother."


End file.
